


and when they sing

by piggy09



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Confusing and pretentious, Dreams, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4612854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As soon as Sarah had enough memories for Beth she was here: this kitchen, the safest place Sarah knew, a keeping-place until Sarah was ready to meet her. She had been alone there for a while. There were visitors, sometimes, but mostly Beth was just alone. Waiting and waiting and waiting for Sarah to come and see her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and when they sing

**Author's Note:**

> [warnings: suicide references, unreality, drug addiction, blood, character death (all deaths that happened or appeared to happen in the show)]
> 
> A thing to keep in mind while reading this: although these conversations are happening between characters, they are also all Sarah talking to herself.

The dream ended; Sarah flickered, like a hologram’s stage-bow, and was gone. Beth found herself alone in the kitchen, facing a wall. It wasn’t her kitchen. It was Sarah’s kitchen, filled with all of the cast-offs of Sarah’s ghosts.

She had been there for a while -- didn’t know how long, didn’t know when she sprang Athena-like from Sarah’s head. Time blurs, when you’re a ghost. As soon as Sarah had enough memories for her she was here: the safest place Sarah knew, a keeping-place until Sarah was ready to meet her. She had been alone there for a while. There were visitors, sometimes, but mostly Beth was just alone. Waiting and waiting and waiting for Sarah to come and see her.

But: Sarah had seen her. She had told Sarah to move on, told Sarah the words that had been lining up on her tongue like pills she knew objectively this version of herself had never taken. She had been made for this: telling Sarah to be brave, to be strong, to be more than what she thought she was.

But she had done it. She’d told Sarah everything; her mouth was empty, plastic, hollow. She stood in the kitchen. Somewhere, a clock didn’t tick.

 _I’m ready to go_ , she said. But no one answered.

* * *

When Beth arrived in the room Katja was already there. The tulips weren’t present; the fridge’s front was the pristine white of a morgue wall. Beth said something elegant when she suddenly Was; _fuck_ , maybe, or _shit_. Then: _Katja, what -- where -- who --_

(The mechanics of Sarah’s brain were too much for her to consider -- and she did consider them, later, when she was alone. Beth didn’t know what she knew; she didn’t know if the stories she knew about Paul, the others, herself, whether they were true stories or games of make-believe Sarah made up in the pit of her brain. When she walked into that room and saw Katja -- did she know her? Had she seen that cream-colored vest before? The memories she had of Katja, were they real? Just one, I’m a few. No family too. Who am I?)

 _You are dead_ , _Beth_ , Katja said. She opened the arms on a pair of sunglasses in her hands, closed them, opened them. Big round shades. _You are a memory_.

 _No_ , Beth said, instinctive. But: she remembered, in a strange split sort of remembering. She remembered walking in front of a train. She remembered watching herself walk in front of a train. So. Yes. She gravitated towards the sink, starting making tea out of habit. It wasn’t her habit. There was no teapot in the flat she shared with Paul.

Across from where Beth was sitting at the kitchen table, Katja told her what she knew. (The bullet wound and her forehead blinked on and off, like a stoplight.) They were dead. There was no one coming to save them. Katja hadn’t tried to leave; she didn’t know what was out there, outside of this room. Beth had walked in through that hallway -- she gestured -- and so that might be the route to some sort of unmaking.

 _I’ll go_ , Beth had said, itchy with her old suicidal yearnings. (In Sarah’s mind they’d gone stale, cold, like yesterday’s leftovers; it made Beth nervous, because she felt like she was shaped around them.) But Katja had put her hand over Beth’s hand, said: _No_.

 _You are not supposed to leave_ , she said. _You can feel it, ya? There is more -- um -- realness to you than me._

(It was true. Katja’s hand over Beth’s felt like something too delicate to be known.)

Katja smiled, a funny little twist of the mouth. The funny thing -- the sad thing -- the thing was that neither of them knew whether that was something Katja had ever done. Their real selves would know, but their real selves were ash and dust.

But that was the point, wasn’t it? Their real selves were ash and dust, and the dust of Katja -- what had once been hair, bone -- was Beth’s fault. Beth’s spine was still a train track, and the thought of Katja leaving again made her sick.

 _Don’t go_ , Beth said.

 _You’ll die out there_ , Beth said.

 _I don’t want to be alone,_ Beth said.

But Katja was already into the hallway, and Beth -- sitting in a chair on the other side of the room -- knew in her bones she couldn’t reach her in time. Couldn’t save her. Couldn’t stop her.

 _At least -- come back, when you’re done,_ she said, her voice a little shaky with desperation. _Tell me what’s out there_.

 _I will_ , Katja said. But she didn’t.

* * *

So Beth was alone for a while. The kitchen stayed the same: empty. Not the way her kitchen was, the kitchen she shared with Paul -- a cold emptiness, glassy and hollow -- but the sort of warm anticipation of the hours before a party. It was the sort of silence Beth would have appreciated when she was alive; so that helped, slightly, with the despair. It was the kind of silence you’d crack open a beer to, sit and look out the window.

She tried that for a while. There wasn’t much out the window besides white. Sometimes it rained, grey and soundless, but that was about the only change. Beth hadn’t figured out a rhythm to that, the rain; she didn’t try much. She started putting her back to it. It made her nervous.

Eventually she dragged a chair over to sit and stare at the hallway. It was a nice hallway -- there was wood in it, and photos whose figures were obscured by glare no matter what angle Beth viewed them from. Katja kept not coming back. It was possible that she was dead. Then again, Beth told herself, maybe there was just a really excellent ghost party outside that was too amazing to leave. Maybe Katja was just having too good of a time out there to come back and fetch Beth. She was kind of a downer, wasn’t she? Helena killed Katja. Beth killed Beth. Who wants a suicide at a party?

(She told herself that, over and over. Katja was out there, and she didn’t want Beth along. Beth didn’t blame her -- _she_ didn’t want herself along.

Also, if she was too sad for too long pill bottles began to show up everywhere. So she didn’t think about it: Katja being dead.)

But she felt like if anyone deserved a good rave, it was her. She needed a stiff drink to cope with being a ghost of a memory (or possibly a memory of a ghost; these were the sort of deep questions that would go down easier chased by a drink) and the fridge was bare. Nothing to drink. So. She stood up from the chair and with a suicide’s determination set forth.

She was walking to the hallway, she was walking to the hallway, she was walking to the hallway, she was—

She stopped, standing a step or two in front of that end-point. Took one, two, three steps forward. Stopped, standing a step or two in front of that end-point.

 _This is a load of horse shit,_ she solemnly told the empty kitchen. She took it at a run -- hurled herself forward, like something that wasn’t a train. But it didn’t work. She just kept up popping back to the start, over and over again.

She couldn’t leave. It was, indeed, a load of horse shit. Maybe two horses. Possibly a whole fucking herd of them.

In a fit of spite she picked up a chair and hurled it through the hallway. But before she could watch it shatter she was sitting in that chair, facing the opposite direction.

 _What,_ she said, _I’m not allowed to redecorate?_

* * *

Helena smashed the kitchen when she showed up.

Rachel did too.

It was the same kitchen. Sarah’s mind had a low tolerance for smashing, evidently.

* * *

Helena wasn’t the next one to show up, though. Neither was Rachel.

It was Kira. Little eight-year-old kid, popping out from under the table and nearly giving Beth a heart attack. If that was a thing she could still have.

 _Wow, kid_ , she said seriously anyways. _You almost gave me a heart attack_.

 _You can’t have one of those,_ Kira said, hopping up into the chair and cradling a mug of tea on the table. Her palms didn’t fit all the way around the mug; there was something sad in it, the inches of space between her tiny fingertips. She should have gotten a smaller mug. She shouldn’t have been there, in that room, feet dangling over the edge of her chair.

 _You bet I can_ , Beth said. _Watch me_.

 _You’re dead, silly,_ Kira said. She smiled, mischievous, and took a sip of tea.

 _Yeah, well, so’re y—_ Beth started. Stopped. Thought _shit_ , didn’t say it.

 _Hm,_ said Kira. _Maybe_. She took another sip of tea, reached for a sugar bowl that didn’t exist. Frowned, slightly, at the lack of sweetness.

 _I don’t like tea_ , she told Beth, as if it was Beth’s fault or as if Beth could do anything about it. _I like hot chocolate. But my mom doesn’t, so I don’t think there’s any here_. She stared bitterly at the mug. Took another sip, with the grudging acceptance of a child forced to eat broccoli.

 _I don’t think I’m dead_ , she said. _My mom thinks I’m dead! But I’m not dead._

 _Wow,_ Beth said, because what else could she say to that. _You’re pretty smart, huh? You must drive your mom nuts. You’d make a good detective._

 _Like you,_ Kira said.

 _Maybe not like me_ , Beth said. She very deliberately ignored the bottles of pills beginning to pop up on the surface of the table like mushrooms.

 _Do you want to know what happened?_ Kira asked, pushing aside the mug of tea to grab a pencil, a piece of paper. _You’re a detective, so that means you like asking questions._

 _Okay_ , Beth said. Her voice was small; she felt strangely like the child in this situation, like Kira would be able to make things okay, like she would know the steps to the dance or the words to the song. And if Kira was talking -- if Kira was talking, she wasn’t trying to leave. Beth, part of her still waiting for Katja to come back through the door, didn’t want Kira to leave.

 _Helena came to the door_ , Kira said. Paused. _Do you know Helena?_

 _Oh, god,_ Beth croaked. She did know Helena. She’d known _of_ Helena for a long time, after Aryanna but before Danielle. _Oh, Kira, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault—_

Kira slammed the pencil on the table, huffed an angry breath through her nose. _She didn’t do it!_ she yelled. _It wasn’t her fault! My mom thinks it was Helena’s fault, but it_ wasn’t _. She just wants to think it’s Helena’s fault because she’s afraid of how much she loves Helena. But_ I’m _not afraid. Helena just wants a hug, but she doesn’t know how to ask for one._

 _We went for a walk,_ she said, back to being calm again. She was drawing on the paper: two stick figures, holding hands. Didn’t quite seem like the art style of an eight-year-old, but then again what the hell would Beth know.

(She could hear screaming in the distance: _Kira, Kira, Kira, Kira_. Could have told Kira her mom was looking for her. But, selfishly, she didn’t. She was damn good at that: being selfish.)

 _What happened_ , Beth said, prompting the next part of the story.

 _I got hit by a car_ , Kira said, soft. _Like you_.

 _Not like me_ , Beth said. _Okay? Not like me._

 _Yeah_ huh _,_ Kira said. _‘Cause it wasn’t my mom’s fault, but she thinks it is. That’s why I’m here, and you’re here, and that’s why we’re the same._

The yelling got louder, loud enough that Beth couldn’t make the thought a parenthetical. Kira, Kira, Kira. _I think I have to go_ , Kira said, hopping off the chair. She was wearing a flowered dress, suddenly and easily. There was a smear of blood on her forehead. _My mom’s going to realize I’m not dead soon, so I have to go hide._

 _Wait_ , Beth said, selfishly. _You can’t go, you’re -- you’re just a kid, you’re not gonna make it out there._

 _I’ll be okay,_ Kira said. _I’m gonna be a different kind of memory, that’s all. My mom loves me a lot. She remembers lots about me. I’ll be okay, Beth, promise._

She was starting to flicker, around the edges. Beth could see something like a photo-negative on the image of her. There was so much blood. So much blood.

 _Hold on, then,_ Beth said. She crouched down, licked the pad of her thumb, wiped the smear of blood off Kira’s forehead. It was the only blood that she could reach; the rest of it wasn’t quite real. Not yet. _There you go. All better._

Kira reached up and wrapped her tiny hand around Beth’s wrist; it was small enough, small enough for Kira to hold. Her fingers clasped each other, less and less real by the instant.

 _Beth?_ she asked. _Can I ask you something?_

 _Sure, kid_ , Beth said.

 _Don’t be mad at Helena when she comes, okay?_ Kira said. _It’s not her fault._

 _What do you mean “when,”_ Beth said, but it was too late: Kira was already gone.

* * *

Amelia and Helena showed up at the same time, one after the other, like an action and its consequence. Beth didn’t know them, but she knew them; she knew them well enough to jump between Helena and Amelia, keep Helena from stabbing her mother with the knife she was holding in her hand.

 _Hey_ , Beth said. _Hey, hey, hey, put that down. None of that shit._

Helena snarled, a loud angry sound. She was dressed all in black; the Clash logo on her shirt was obscured by blood. Beth (embarrassingly, for a detective) couldn’t tell where she was bleeding from -- heart? liver? stomach? Maybe she’d always been bleeding, maybe that was just who Helena was in Sarah’s head. Blood and bleeding and a knife in your hand.

 _Please, Helena,_ Amelia pleaded. _There has already been enough violence._

 _I hate you,_ Helena said, very seriously.

 _Why?_ Beth asked.

Helena paused, shook. _I don’t_ know _,_ she screamed, the last part of it more of a roar. The knife went into the wall; Helena began to try and smash things, screamed some more when that didn’t work. Beth left her to that, gave Amelia a seat.

 _You want anything_ , she said, over the sound of Helena screaming. _Can’t really offer anything but tea, but we sure have tea._

 _No,_ Amelia said. _Thank you. I do not think I will be here very long._

 _You’re her mom,_ Beth said. But before she could keep going Amelia shook her head.

 _Not in the ways that matter_ , she said, soft. _Look at where we are! Sarah wanted us to be safe and so she put us here, in this house, and she gave us tea. It is not a difficult thing to figure out, is it, Detective Childs?_

 _You are leaving_ , Helena said from her seat at the table. _Go, then. You are not my mother. You are not Sarah’s mother. You are a corpse and you should rot. That is what corpses do._ She showed a mouthful of teeth.

Beth wanted to tell Helena to leave. She wanted to so desperately that she could see train headlights in the corner of her vision. But she had made a promise -- not out loud, but she’d made it nonetheless -- and the promises of the dead are not cheap things.

She also, very much, wanted Amelia to stay. So she reached out and folded her hands around Amelia’s, said: _You’re still -- she won’t -- she won’t_ forget _you._

 _She will,_ Amelia said, soft. _It is easier, I think, than remembering._

 _Let me guess,_ Beth said. _Sarah’s gonna blame herself for this one too._

 _You’re a_ terrible _detective_ , Helena said in a sing-song. She was fidgeting, bleeding. _We are all eggs_. _And this is a very nice basket._

 _But not for you,_ she said. _Not-mother. This place is not for you._

Amelia smiled at Beth, wry and sad and tolerant; the sort of smile she would have given someone if Helena, small, was throwing a tantrum in the supermarket. It was a mother’s expression. Beth -- Beth wanted her to stay, even if she didn’t want to stay, even if Helena was radiating anger from where she was pacing back and forth in the kitchen.

 _My mom died,_ she said. _Sarah didn’t tell you that, did she._

 _No,_ Amelia said quietly, her hands still holding Beth’s. They were dry and warm and stable, like rock, like something you could build on. And yet -- they were fragile, like Katja’s hands. Just like Katja’s hands. The thought made Beth want to weep, want to break the whole kitchen to pieces just like Helena was doing -- had done -- just like Helena.

 _We went to your apartment,_ Amelia said. (Helena scoffed, loudly, and Beth thought about the warp and space in the word _we._ ) _But Sarah did not talk about you._

 _I didn’t have a mom for a long time_ , Beth said. _My dad tried, but…_ She stopped, weighed the silence. _I guess it doesn’t matter now._

 _I am not your mother, Beth,_ Amelia said. _I am not anybody’s mother, now. Just a woman who is very tired_.

 _Go_ , said Helena. _Leave_.

Amelia looked at Helena for a moment, and there was something so sad and vulnerable and raw shimmering in the air between them that Beth felt like an intruder. She found herself over by the window, looking at the knife block. All those knives. She could hear Amelia murmuring something, distant, hear Helena saying _no, no, no_ with a sort of quiet helplessness. Sniffling, muffled by a sleeve or someone else’s shoulder. The rustling of fabric. A soft sigh.

When she turned back around, Amelia was gone. Gone, like she was never there at all. Helena was still sitting at the table, kicking one boot against the ground over and over. Beth couldn’t remember if she’d always been wrapped in that big green parka, but she didn’t suppose it mattered. Helena was still bleeding. That was the important thing.

 _I don’t miss her,_ Helena said. _She was not my mother._

 _Okay,_ Beth said. Helena’s eyes flicked up to her, flicked back down.

 _Will she die out there?_ she asked.

 _She seemed to think she would_ , Beth said neutrally. She remembered Katja, remembered Kira saying: _She remembers a lot about me. I’ll be okay_. Her hands twisted in on themselves on the table. It all depended on how much Sarah remembered about Amelia, didn’t it? That wasn’t really a gamble Beth was willing to make.

 _You wanted me to go,_ Helena said. _Instead of her. You do not want me here._

Beth stayed silent, which was an answer in and of itself. _You killed my sis—you killed them,_ she said. _Katja was here, you know. So was Kira._

Helena went frozen on that last word, and Beth looked at the refrigerator. On yellow paper: a drawing of two figures holding hands, one big with frizzy hair. One too small, entirely too small.

 _She is alive_ , Helena said, in a rough croak, and: _it was my fault._

 _She said it wasn’t_ , Beth said.

 _She is a child_ , Helena said. She reached for the sugar bowl, poured one, two, three heaping spoonfuls into the cup of tea that had appeared on the table. The smell of lemons filled the room as she stirred -- sharp and bright, like the edge of a knife. She said: _What does she know, about dying?_

 _More than any of us, I think,_ Beth said. Paused. _She’s out there, you know. Somewhere. Maybe she’ll--_

Helena shook her head, like a dog shaking off rain. _Sarah hates me_ , she said conversationally. _If I leave I will die._

That wasn’t what Beth had meant, Helena leaving. But Helena didn’t seem to care; she kept stirring, counterclockwise and left-handed. The tea at this point had gained the consistency of very sweet mud. _She hates me_ , she said again, with the black-and-white righteousness of a child. _She said she did not want me to be her family. Then…_

She stopped stirring the tea with an irritated sound, tipped it to show Beth: a teacup full of blood, all wet and copper. She sighed. _I do not know,_ she said, slowly, _if I wanted to be hers. Her family._

 _Maybe,_ she said, _I just wanted to want something._

 _We all want things_ , Beth said. _Sometimes they’re terrible things._ Beside her Helena picked up the pistol that had appeared on the table, began to dissemble it with practiced ease. Click, click, click.

 _What did you want, Beth?_ she asked.

 _I wanted to die_ , Beth whispered. _I wanted this to be over. I wanted to stop letting everyone down. I wanted to help them, all of them. I wanted to fix everything._

 _I wanted Sarah_ , Helena said. _Tell me, Detective. Is that why I am here?_

* * *

She stayed for a while, Helena did. Beth got used to her slowly and then all at once, like adopting a stray cat she’d never meant to. They traded stories back and forth, ones that might have been true. Helena eyed the door. Helena stayed, smashing plates and screaming and painstakingly creating drawing after drawing that appeared on the fridge. Helena stayed, and stayed, and stayed, sitting across the table from Beth dressed in that white tank top, those black pants. She looked like an angel who had forgotten everything; the sight of her made Beth sad, and so she stopped looking.

And Beth stayed too, still, unmoving, unchanging. There was a period of time where she stared at her hands folded in her lap, watched the way the fabric of her dress stretched over her thighs. It was the dress she’d died in; she hated it, sharply and abruptly, so she -- changed. When she changed (button-down shirt under a sweater, jeans, and she was pretty sure Sarah had worn that outfit, was less sure if she herself had) Helena changed too. They eyed each other from across the table, Helena in her bloodstained Clash shirt and Beth in her sweater. Both of them, in their own way, in Sarah’s clothes. Sarah’s clothes, Sarah’s mind, Sarah’s house, Sarah’s ghosts.

 _Do you think she will forgive me_ , Helena said, sharp like a challenge. _For killing—_ she paused, face wrinkled with effort. _Our mother. And for hurting Kira. And for hurting her._ She looked at Beth, eyes wide. Kicked-dog expression.

 _Do you think you deserve it?_ Beth fired back. Same question.

Helena opened her mouth. Closed it. _I don’t know,_ she said quietly. _At first I thought that I deserved to die. At first I thought Sarah did not want me to be her family. Now…now I do not know._

 _There you go_ , Beth said, leaning back in the chair, letting it rock onto two legs. _There’s your answer. You don’t know. She doesn’t either. You’d have to ask her yourself._

Helena eyed the door with distrust before letting her eyes find Beth again. _I should go,_ she says. _Out there. But—_

She stared at her hands on the table, hunched her shoulders. She looked like she was waiting for Beth to hit her, dreading that inevitability.

 _Do you remember Amelia_ , she said, soft.

Beth opened her mouth. Closed it. Amelia in her mind was an unformed shadow. She could almost remember the feeling of Amelia’s hands in hers -- but maybe that was a dream, not a memory. Maybe she was trying too hard to remember.

 _If I leave_ , Helena says, _will you forget about me too? Will Sarah forget me?_

 _Don’t leave_ , Beth whispered. She cleared her throat, even though she was pretty sure she didn’t have to. _Problem solved._

Helena grinned, hesitant at first and then large. She ducked her head. _I will stay_ , she said firmly. _I will stay, and Sarah will forgive me, and it will be—_

She stopped, suddenly, looking like she’d been shot in the chest. Flickered. Once. Twice.

 _Helena?_ Beth asked, worried. She tried to grab Helena’s hand but found she couldn’t. Helena was unraveling, restitching herself into something Beth didn’t recognize. She was dressed in white and blood, like a baptism, like a marriage. Her eyes were so wide.

 _Oh_ , she breathed, grinning so big it looked like it hurt. _Oh._ And then she was gone.

* * *

She was gone and she didn’t come back. The silence seemed torturous, and Beth still couldn’t _leave_. She was growing increasingly nauseous sitting here, powerless to stop anyone from leaving. She was here for a reason, wasn’t she? Wasn’t that reason to make them stay? Why would Sarah put her here, if it wasn’t to make them all stay?

She kept thinking about Sarah. It was difficult not to, while in Sarah’s mind. She was starting to get mad at her. Beth had wanted -- she had wanted to _go_ , wanted to walk out into that bright light and sleep. In her mind it had been a last resort; she’d been considering it for so long, but every morning she had stared at herself in the mirror and known that she could keep going just a little bit longer. So when she’d looked in the mirror and known she _couldn’t_ \-- that was it, she was done. The train was supposed to take her somewhere where she wouldn’t have to see it, how much she’d kept letting them all down.

But here she was. Awake, and letting them all down; awake, letting them all out the door, one after the other. Leaving and vanishing and shattering and leaving. She cradled cups of tea in her hands, she paced, she tried to think: _I’m here for a reason_. Sarah wouldn’t have dreamt her up for nothing. There had to be someone she could help, right? There had to be someone she could save. There had to be. She’d spent too much time trying to save everyone to have her encore be this: this circus-tent collapse, this slow rippling disappointment. She would keep trying, and it would end up alright.

It wasn’t as if she had any other options, after all. Might as well just wait it out.

* * *

The tulips came before Rachel did, a big violent bloom of red -- like a gunshot wound, or blood expelled from a throat. They smelled like a hospital and were too red, too loud, too violent. Beth stared at them for a while, red filling her vision until everything else blurred and faded. She wondered what they were for. More realistically, she wondered _who_ they were for. If someone was dead they would be here; no one was here, and therefore no one was dead. ( _Wow_ , she muttered to herself. _Really sharp detective work, Childs_.) They drove her crazy.

Rachel cleared it up a few brief moments after appearing; with the red bleeding from her eye socket and the red on her lips and the red on her feet she matched the flowers.

 _She brought Cosima_ flowers _,_ she said, scorn dripping from every syllable. _How…charming_.

 _Cosima?_ Beth asked, sharp with concern. _What happened to Cosima?_

Rachel looked at her, smirked in a twist of lips. She blinked, slowly; when she opened her eyes she’d opened her eyes, and the blood on her face was gone. She took a seat at the table, slowly and deliberately crossed her legs. Beth wanted to choke her, for taking all that time.

 _She’s sick_ , she said. _Who knows how long she has._

 _No_ , Beth said.

 _I’m afraid so_ , Rachel sighed, sounding not at all put-out about it. _I suppose she’ll be joining us here, soon enough. I’m sure the flowers will delight her_.

She stared at them, something dark and horrible in the lines of her face.

 _Don’t talk about Cosima like that_ , Beth spat. _She’s your_ sister _. Can’t you even shed a crocodile tear or something, you bitch?_

 _She is_ not _my sister_ , Rachel hissed, a long livid string of syllables. _I have no sisters. I am_ alone _, and I need_ none of you.

They stared at each other from across the table, Sarah and Sarah. Rachel procured a teapot out of nowhere -- it wasn’t the old reliable one by the sink -- and poured herself a cup. Her fingernails glittered on the handle. Her hands were shaking, slightly. Behind her, the glass of the window cracked right down the middle. When Beth blinked it was fixed. All around them, things were cracking and reshaping themselves, over and over, as Sarah’s mind ate itself alive.

Beth considered yelling at Rachel some more, watching the continuous trembling of Rachel’s hands on her teacup. Instead she said, quietly: _I’m sorry you’re dead_.

The teapot barely missed her as it whizzed by her head; there was a very loud absence of sound where its shattering could have been. Rachel was standing, hands splayed on the tabletop, heaving breaths that made her whole body sway.

 _I. Am. Not. Dead_ , she hissed.

 _You are_ , Beth said calmly. _You_ —

 _No!_ Rachel screamed, the sound more of a roar. And then she was a hurricane of destruction, trying her best to tear the place apart. Picking up chairs to throw them at the window, sweeping everything off the table, screaming and shaking and screaming.

 _Helena tried that earlier_ , Beth called. _It doesn’t do anything, just so you know._

Rachel made some sort of angry spitting sound, like the crackling of a fire -- then she was in front of Beth, hands fisted in the collar of Beth’s shirt, face up against Beth’s face. Blood trickled down her cheekbone, vanished, came back over and over. _I am_ not _dead, Detective Childs,_ she spat, voice trembling. _Do I make myself clear?_

 _Prove it_ , Beth said evenly. Rachel recrossed her legs in the other chair, picked up her cup of tea in delicate and unshaking fingertips.

 _It’s simply not fathomable_ , she said. _I can’t die. Especially not like_ that.

 _Like how_ , Beth said.

 _I’ll be gone by the time Cosima arrives_ , Rachel said, which wasn’t an answer. She stared at Beth, fluttered her eyelashes. _I’m sure your reunion will be touching. Surely you’ve missed her._

 _Cosima’s not dead_ , Beth said steadily. _Nobody’s dead except -- except me._

Rachel shrugged a shoulder, elegant and careless. _Yet_ , she said. _Cosima is dying, Helena is missing—_

 _Helena_ , Beth said suddenly.

 _She’s gone_ , Rachel sighed. _Sarah hasn’t noticed yet._ She shook her head in mock disappointment, took a small sip from the teacup. Her nails flashed dully, like lead.

What Beth had meant was: Helena is _alive?_ But to say so after Rachel’s assumption that she _was_ would be to make herself seem stupid. Helena was alive. That would explain why she’d vanished.

 _What about Alison_ , she asked, a rough whisper.

 _Alison_ , Rachel said bitterly. _Alison is perfectly fine, I’m sure. Alison Hendrix is always fine._

 _That’s not true_ , Beth said. She stopped. How could she explain Alison? Beth had watched her drown, but hadn’t been able to save her. She’d meant to. She’d wanted to. She’d been so preoccupied, and so tired, and she couldn’t reach out for Alison. She’d wanted to save all of them. She’d wanted to keep everyone safe. That’s all she’d wanted. And even now -- even here -- even dead, she could do nothing right.

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a moment, while Beth told herself she didn’t notice the gun on the table. Then abruptly Rachel stood up, the chair skittering back against the floor.

 _I’m leaving_ , she said. _It’s been a pleasure, Detective Childs_. The last part she said by rote; it certainly didn’t sound like it had been a pleasure.

 _You can’t leave_ , Beth said. She was standing too, standing between Rachel and the door. _You’ll die out there._

 _This is the safest place_ , she pleaded. _Outside of here -- you die. Everyone always leaves, and everyone always dies._

 _This isn’t a safe place_ , Rachel said. _This is purgatory, and I don’t belong here. This isn’t my house. This isn’t a place I’ve ever been -- I don’t belong here._

 _I’ll be fine_ , she said, smirking. _Even if you’d prefer it if I wasn’t._

 _You don’t know that,_ Beth said. _You may be -- you may be awful, but that doesn’t mean I want you to die. I don’t want you to die out there. Stay. You can be terrible and cruel, but do it here and not out there._

 _Oh, Beth,_ Rachel sighed. _Always so noble. And what has it gotten you?_ She made a show of looking around the room, the empty chairs, the table with its half-finished cups of tea.

 _Give up the ghosts_ , she said. Somehow she’d gotten on the other side of Beth, so Beth was staring at her back silhouetted in the hallway light. _You’re trying to hold hourglass sand between your fingers, and that was dull enough when you were alive._

 _Do you really think Sarah remembers you well enough to keep you alive_ , Beth said seriously, feeling that same looming sense of inevitability. _Do you think you won’t be erased the second you step out that door?_

Rachel laughed, one sharp scornful sound. _Sarah’s mind won’t erase me_ , she said, with the tone of someone explaining something very simple to a particularly stupid child. _She needs me._

She turned to face Beth, and Beth saw that she was dressed all in black -- black blazer black skirt red red smirk.  

 _I’m the villain of this piece_ , Rachel said. Then she turned on her heel, and walked out the door.

* * *

Beth tried to follow her. Is that a terrible thing to admit? She did. There was something about Rachel -- Beth didn’t trust her, couldn’t trust her, but Rachel seemed so certain and so in control. Even when screaming Rachel had seemed in control. It seemed like if anyone could open the door, and let Beth out—

But she couldn’t get out. The hallway was still infinite, bent in on itself. She couldn’t leave. _What do you_ want _from me,_ she shouted at the empty uncaring walls. _Do I have to keep sitting here, watching all my sisters die?! I can’t -- I can’t_ do _it, please, let me_ go _._

The room stayed silent. Beth stayed alone. She drank cup after cup of tea, spitefully hoping it would go to her bladder so that Sarah’s mind would have to figure out what to do with _that_. But nothing happened. The most that ever happened was occasional flickers, people showing up and vanishing before Beth could grab them. Ghosts of ghosts. Old men, a man with a curled-up hairdo who had enough time to open his mouth before he vanished. The dying and the dead and Beth, always Beth, sitting at that table, watching the door and waiting.

She jumped several inches in the air, when it actually opened. She wouldn’t admit it but she did.

There was a silence, and then someone began to giggle. The sound of it was sweet and thin, like wind chimes, like being alive.

 _Hi, Beth!_ Kira said, poking her head around the door and beaming.

 _Kira?_ Beth croaked.

 _Mhm,_ Kira said, opening the door further and walking inside like it wasn’t anything. Her feet were bare; against the floorboards, they seemed achingly small and young. _I told you I’d be fine!_ she said brightly.

 _Come on_ , Beth said lightly. _What kind of cop would I be if I didn’t want evidence, huh?_

Kira considered this for a second. _Okay_ , she said. _But you’ve been busy! I didn’t want to make anyone mad._

The door creaked again, opened another crack. Kira considered it. _Oh,_ she said. _Right! I almost forgot why I came back_. She made a face, stuck-out tongue, as if to say: _duh_. She ran back to the door, whispered something to someone on the other side of it, turned around.

 _I brought someone to say hi!_ she said proudly. She reached out and grabbed a hand, just as small as hers; she tugged a little girl through the doorway, small as Kira, staring wide-eyed at Beth. Her leg was in a brace, and Kira skipped a little in her haste to pull her forward.

_This is—_

_Charlotte_ , Beth said. _Hey_.

 _And you’re Beth_ , Charlotte said. _We’re sisters_.

 _She’s not dead_ , Kira said helpfully, filling the silence where Beth’s apology lay gathering dust and waiting to rise. _She’s just gonna help._

 _Help what?_ Beth asked. She didn’t know if ghosts could get headaches, but this was beginning to give her one anyways.

 _You have to meet Sarah_ , Kira said, and Beth forgot all about headaches.

 _She needs your help_ , Kira continued, solemnly. They were all sitting around the table. Charlotte was pouring herself a cup of tea; the steam rose, lemon-scented and warm. Beth was cradling an empty teacup in her hands. She didn’t know how long it had been empty, only that it had been for a long time.

 _I can’t leave_ , she said, and: _I don’t know how to help._

(But she wanted to. It was that old selfishness, back again. She’d died too late to help Sarah, but surely this -- this could be her one good thing, this could make up for everything else. She could just -- not fail Sarah, and then she could--)

 _You’re not gonna leave,_ Kira said, and Beth blinked, focused her attention on the girl in the other chair. _My mom’s gonna come here! Charlotte and I know all the best shortcuts in her brain._

 _Like the one with the staircase,_ Charlotte said, and they both giggled. But Charlotte got solemn quick enough; her little hands reached out and enveloped Beth’s, and she stared at Beth like Beth was the most important thing she’d ever known.

 _Will you help?_ she asked, and Beth could feel -- suddenly -- something cold and metal between their hands. She let go of Charlotte’s hands and eyed the police badge between her palms, the way it shone. And the more she thought about it, the more she _wanted_ it: the chance to talk to Sarah, to say everything she’d wanted to say since she got here. To yell at her, maybe. It seemed like Sarah needed _someone_ to yell at her.

She stared at the badge in her hands, the way it shone bright like a star.

 _Okay_ , she said. _Okay._

* * *

The dream ended. Sarah left. Beth didn’t.

The air echoed from the words _I’m ready to go_ , echoed again from the silence.

 _Let me_ go _!_ she roared. Still nothing. A tea kettle began to whistle, spitefully. _Fuck you_ , Beth told it. _You think I haven’t noticed you do that only when you want to?_ She sighed, poured herself a cup anyways. Sarah’s cup sat on the table, where she hadn’t left it. Beth left her shoes on the table next to the teacup. She wiggled her toes against the ground. Outside the window, it began to rain. She wondered idly if that was because Sarah was crying. That would probably explain a lot.

It was nice, almost. Beth’s tongue tasted like sunshine and lemons from the tea. It was easy to forget that she hadn’t been good enough. After all: she’d thought that’s what it was, hadn’t she? Her one big encore, her one chance to make it all right. But obviously it hadn’t been enough. If it had been, she wouldn’t still be here. So. She’d sit here, powerless, and she’d wait for someone else to die. And she’d try to get them to stay, and they wouldn’t stay. They’d leave. And she’d forget them.

She stood up from the chair, padded over to the window. Outside it was still raining; maybe it had always been raining, maybe she’d just forgotten. Seemed like she was forgetting a lot of things.

The thought made her swallow down a sharp breath, and so it took her a moment to realize that the inhalation she’d just heard wasn’t hers. She realized it about the same time a voice behind her said: _Beth?_

 _No_ , she said steadily. _No, you don’t get to be here. This isn’t for you._

She didn’t turn around, even though she could hear the slow steady tread of footsteps approaching her. But this was her place, had become her place, and she knew the warp and woof of it -- so she was somewhere else, easy as not breathing. She was on the other side of the table, watching her ghost confront empty space.

 _Leave, Paul_ , she said. _Get out. I’m done with you. I’m finished. You can’t haunt me anymore, you piece of shit, I’m_ done _._

 _Beth_ , he said again, all aching and patient. Beth hadn’t been holding a teacup but then she was, she was throwing it, and it should have hit Paul in the face but it was back in her hand again. She was crying, loud angry helpless sobs.

 _I’m done with you_ , she screamed. _I can’t help you. I can’t forgive you. I can’t. I won’t. Fuck you, fuck this, I won’t. You can’t make me._

She sat down in the chair, heavy. All the pill bottles on the table rattled when she did. She poured a handful of pills in her mouth, on reflex; with Paul here, with the smell of his aftershave, reaching for a bottle was a reflex. She could feel the phantom aching in her shoulders that she’d gotten during those last days. She didn’t have to look down to know she was wearing that dress again, the heels she’d left behind for Sarah.

 _I regret it,_ Paul said. He took a step closer and Beth felt her head whip up, stared unseeing at a sight over his shoulder. That’s where Sarah remembered the train being. If only it was there. If only she could run, again, from this. _I’m sorry, Beth. I didn’t mean—_

 _You were supposed to stay with Sarah,_ Beth said helplessly. _The one good thing you could have done was stay alive for her. Make her happy. Make_ one _of us happy._

(The words she swallowed down with the pills -- habits, all of it a habit -- were: _You were supposed to feel bad for every second of the rest of your life. How can you regret it, if you’re dead now?_ )

 _I died for her,_ he said. The sound of it should have been a confession, but instead it was an argument. Every loving thing between the two of them was always an argument. God. God, Beth had missed him.

 _Fuck you,_ she spat. _Of course you did. Of course you died for her._ She wiped tears from her face with the tips of her fingers, angry and scared. _I bet you loved her. You did, didn’t you? You loved her the way you didn’t love me. The way you couldn’t._

 _You deserved better than me,_ Paul said.

 _You’re damn right I did,_ she said. She rested her weight on the countertop, looked out the window. Outside the rain had stopped. The air outside was dry.

 _I thought -- I thought I was here to help_ , she said. _I thought Sarah put me here to keep me safe, so that maybe I could keep everyone else safe. Thought I could try the same dance again, and have it go better this time. Definition of insanity, huh? Did you write that in your report, that I was crazy?_

 _You know that I don’t know that,_ Paul said. _I don’t remember._

 _I don’t remember either,_ Beth whispered. _You know what I do remember?_

 _What_ , Paul said, crossing the room.

 _When I got that promotion,_ she said, words whisper-thin as smoke. _We picked up from that shitty Italian place I liked, the one with the meatballs._

 _You fuckin’ hated those meatballs_ , she said, with a laugh. _God. How much did they pay you for that? What was your bonus, huh, Paul?_

He opened his mouth to say something, but she kept talking. _I had too much to drink_ , she said. _You let me. My badge was on the table, I couldn’t stop looking at it—_

Her head drooped, her shoulders collapsed in on themselves. She wasn’t heavy until he got here. All these other women with her face she could handle, all the trappings of someone else’s family -- but this, this was too much. This had always been too much.

Behind her, the music started. Because that was how the memory went: Paul put on music, and they danced. She turned around and met him, let him swallow her whole. His hand wrapped around her waist, his hand holding hers.[ _Gimme sympathy_](https://youtu.be/EZEU41xdgDU?t=61), the singer crooned, voice too soft, music too soft -- all guitar, acoustic, too soft. All of this too soft. She buried her face in Paul’s throat, felt the jump of his lying pulse beating. _Oh, seriously. You’re gonna make mistakes, you’re young._

 _I loved you_ , she whispered into the hollow between Paul’s throat and shoulder, the bones there so strong and stable she used to think they could hold her. _I loved you, you piece of shit._

They kept dancing, around and around and around in circles, going nowhere. On their radio the singer crooned about getting too close to something better left unknown. Beth could feel the floorboards under her bare feet, wondered when her shoes had vanished. Above everything, she was just tired.

 _Tell me what I can do to fix this_ , Paul whispered into the top of her head. Because that’s what he’d always done: what she wanted him to do.

 _Leave_ , Beth whispered back. _Go. I don’t need you anymore._

She shook herself free from him, stood there stable enough on her own two feet. The table was littered with empty cups of tea, teacups, half-finished drawings. There had been people here before Paul; there would be people here after him too. There would be people who didn’t know the way his eyes got all crinkled when he laughed. People who never heard songs on the radio that reminded them of him, belting them out in the kitchen while making dinner. There were billions of people out there, probably. But here there was only her and him.

 _Where do you want me to go?_ Paul asked, helpless, furious. _You think there’s anything out there? We’re stuck here. We’re stuck like this, Beth, we—_

 _You’re wrong_ , she said calmly. _We’re not stuck anywhere. There is no “we.”_

 _Fine,_ Paul said, with a laugh bitter as tea. _Try to leave. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You run away from things. You try to fix things and when you can’t you run away from them, Beth. Over and over and over again._

 _Yeah, see, that’s where you’re wrong,_ she said. _You’re looking at it from the wrong angle._ So she flipped them, Paul at the table and Beth by the door. She started pacing back and forth, a habit of hers or a habit of Sarah’s or -- someone’s habits, deep in the bones of her.

 _This is a circle_ , she said. _This is a ghost-waltz. This is me grabbing on to everyone’s hands and pulling them in circles so I could tell myself the song didn’t end and I could still --_ fix _things, fix all the things I couldn’t fix when I was alive. This was my last chance._

 _But it’s not_ , she said, and her voice cracked on the last word, and she ignored it. _This is me keeping the guilt alive, don’t you see? I’m guilt. I’m Sarah’s guilt. I’m trying so hard to make everyone stay, when I should have been willing to let them go._

 _I wanted this to be my do-over_ , Beth said. _I wanted this to be my second chance. Selfish in my selflessness, huh?_ She laughed, a dry and bitter sound. There was no rain outside the window, just white, just a very bright light always frozen rushing towards her. She put her fingertips against the window.

 _Hey, it’s still a second chance,_ Paul said; Beth watched their reflections in the window, him next to her. His shadow fell over her, leaving her in darkness and silence. _We’re here now, aren’t we?_

 _There’s that “we” again,_ Beth said. _You really don’t get it, do you? I’m leaving. I’m not going to wait here, wait for someone else to forgive me. I’ve sinned, Paul, but I’m sick of trying to get forgiveness from other people’s hands._

She took a step forward into the hallway. _I forgave Sarah,_ she said. _That’s what matters, isn’t it? Sarah’s_ alive _, Paul. She’s alive, and she’s going to do a damn better job of it than we ever did._

Paul said something, but his voice was muffled -- like he was underwater, like he was slowly vanishing. Beth took another step towards the door, then another. Step after step after step, past the wooden walls, past the picture frames. Some of them, she saw, were pictures of her. Some of them weren’t. There were so many familiar faces on the walls. She wondered if any of them were out there. Maybe she’d go and find out.

The door was in front of her. She’d expect it to seem bigger, to loom, to have weight. But it was just a door. There was a chip in it near the base, and dust showing bright against the grain of the wood. Beth could feel it against her palm when she wrapped her hand around the doorknob, and opened the door.

It was night time. In the sky above the stars were shining, infinite and vast and bright. Beth smiled to herself, and stepped outside.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Death comes to me again, a girl  
> in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling.  
> It's not so terrible she tells me,  
> not like you think, all darkness  
> and silence. There are windchimes  
> and the smell of lemons, some days  
> it rains, but more often the air is dry  
> and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase  
> built from hair and bone and listen  
> to the voices of the living. I like it,  
> she says, shaking the dust from her hair,  
> especially when they fight, and when they sing.  
> \--"Death Comes to Me Again, A Girl," Dorianne Laux
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos + comments if you liked! :)
> 
> (Also PS that version of "Gimme Sympathy" is from the playlist that I made to accompany this fic, which I'll put online ASAP.)


End file.
